


A Traitor's Courage

by FeuillesMortes



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses (2016), The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Family Bonding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeuillesMortes/pseuds/FeuillesMortes
Summary: At eleven years old, Henry of Richmond does not remember his uncle. All they have ever said about Lord Jasper was that he was a rebel and a traitor.__________________A look into Henry VII and Jasper Tudor's relationship during the years 1468-1471.
Relationships: Henry VII of England & Jasper Tudor Duke of Bedford Earl of Pembroke, Margaret Beaufort Countess of Richmond and Derby & Henry VII of England
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	A Traitor's Courage

**Author's Note:**

> A belated birthday gift to the dearest @tudoraddict! 🌹

RAGLAN CASTLE,  
July 1468

“Father will take your uncle’s head,” the boy spat, voice thick with contempt. _“_ He will capture that traitor and chop off his neck. We’ll see if he’ll be able to flee without his head this time, that great coward.”

Henry of Richmond lowered his chin, trying to bite the cutting reply that was just about to roll off the tip of his tongue. He closed his hand into a fist, gripped his trousers with shaking fingers. _My uncle is the Earl of Pembroke_ , Henry wanted to shout. _He’s neither traitor nor coward_. His eyebrows plunged deeply down together, his lips were cracked and strained, yet he did not say the reply that threatened to climb step by step out of his throat — Henry didn’t utter a single word. The unsaid protest sat at the base of his tongue, simmering, festering, bringing with it an acute sting that tasted as acrid as blood. Henry must have bitten his tongue. He looked at the tiled floor and ground his molars together. It was the first time he was wearing chainmail outside the courtyard. 

He took a deep breath and unclenched his fist. No, Henry would not give George Herbert the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him. George was a spiteful kid, of age with Henry but that had put into his mind to hate and torment him to the best of his abilities since Henry had joined his household. William and Wallace, however — the elder Herbert brothers — were friendly to Henry, though they hardly ever spared him a glance. Henry could be a ghost for all the attention they paid to him. The Herbert pair was just now outside at the gatehouse, both of them just shy of seventeen, looking resplendent in their new sets of armour and stylish surcoats made ready for the occasion: their lord father Sir William Herbert was going off to war, tasked by King Edward to route _‘the old Lord Jasper’_ off Wales again.

Henry was to go with them. He didn’t know why Sir William needed him to act as his page when he could just as easily use one of his sons for that purpose. Yet, despite all of his lordship’s affable smiles and kind questions after his health, he knew Sir William meant to teach him a lesson — Henry would bend his back to scrub and polish Sir William’s armour while just outside the tents they tried to lure his uncle out and have him killed on the spot. _Look closely_ , they were all trying to tell him, _this will be your fate should you ever decide to take after your kinsman and rebel against the crown._ That was far from Henry’s worst fear, though. Henry desperately wished they would not use him as bait.

There weren’t many memories of his uncle left for Henry to peruse at night, not much for him to cherish when in bed, huddled under the covers in his usual position facing the wall. Last night, as George and Phillip chatted excitedly about their father’s upcoming campaign and soon-to-be status as the new Earl of Pembroke — something no one had bothered to personally tell him so far — Henry closed his eyes and pressed the pillow against his ears to try and think of the real Earl of Pembroke: a pair of red Spanish leather boots, a piggyback ride, the beginnings of a broad smile in a pair of ruddy cheeks. The last time he had seen his uncle Henry had not been five; six years later and his time in Pembroke was all but a blur in his mind.

They said his uncle had left him behind when he fled Wales, that he had abandoned him like one might cast out an old weapon gone blunt. Still, Henry did not wish for his uncle to die. He pressed his lips together in prayer: perhaps a hundred paternosters could save him. He reached under his tunic and retrieved the scapular his mother had sent to him years before, fingers touching the square wooden piece where the red and blue cross of St John of Matha, protector of Christian captives, was painted. In her letters, his mother always told him to commend his soul to God, that if both of them tried hard enough the Lord would look kindly on them. Henry prayed for his uncle’s life to be saved, but should the worst come to pass, he prayed that he might be spared from looking at his severed head stuck on a spike. 

WEOBLEY CASTLE,  
July 1469

Henry had ridden all through the night. He had not so much as ridden as gripped his place atop Sir Richard Corbert’s horse with all the strength he had as the man took him from the Battle of Edgecote to where the Lady Countess of Pembroke, now widowed, lodged with her children. The castle belonged to Lady Anne’s brother Sir Walter Devereaux, Baron Ferrars, but it had once been her childhood home. Henry had taken some time to understand Sir Richard had not taken him back to Raglan and stood still before the unfamiliar façade, mind going around in circles until Sir Richard gave him a shove and prompted him to enter the castle. The cries of the battle were still ringing inside his ears. 

They had run and run, Sir Richard had spurred his horse on with no remorse for the poor beast’s wellbeing. It would probably be put to death come the morrow. Fleeing a battle made Henry a deserter, a fugitive for the first time. Thanks to the lords Warwick and Clarence King Edward’s fate now hung by a thread, and so did the fates of everyone else who had come to rely on his grace. Lord Herbert and his brother, once the King’s greatest advisors, had met no lucky end. Henry could still see the moment his guardian was struck and thrown off his horse, the hordes of angry enemies engulfing him, before Sir Richard had pulled on his arm and dragged him across the field. _What now_ , Henry asked himself _, what was to become of him?_

“What is _he_ doing here?” George Herbert cried in the middle of the hall, interrupting his cousin’s hurried report of what had just happened at Edgecote. He was pointing an angry finger at Henry. “ _Why_ is he here when Father is dead? Shouldn’t he have died with him too?”

The Herbert daughters, Sir Richard Corbert, Lady Anne, her sister-in-law, the Devereaux children — all of them stood in shock at the enraged little lordling that cursed Henry’s very presence in their hall. Lord Herbert’s death had left an unrepairable chasm among them. He had held extensive properties across South Wales and the Marches, and so respected and powerful he had become across the whole of Wales, so close to King Edward, the men had taken to call him _Black William_ , the new _mab darogan_.

It took a moment for Lady Anne to overcome her own grief. Gathering her skirts, she stood from her chair to go and place a hand on her son’s shoulders, the oldest among her children now that William and Wallace were still somewhere out there fighting under King Edward’s banner.

“Come, George, my love. Be reasonable now. We are all grieving.”

“No!” The boy protested with a vigorous shake of his head, tears spilling from his eyes. “Had Father taken me with him instead, he would still be alive now. I know it, I know!”

Everyone stared at each other in silence. In that muted commotion, Henry tried, very quietly, to express his sympathies to Lord Herbert’s family. He tried to find the right words to say but he couldn’t, not really. It was as if his entire body had been plunged into a river of ice and he couldn’t feel a thing — nor his face nor his hands, just a perpetual state of shock pinning him down in place. Henry knew he should mourn for Lord Herbert but he could never do it as his children did however much he tried. Sir William Herbert, the new Earl of Pembroke: his protector, his guardian, his _gaoler_. 

Lady Anne had thanked Sir Richard for Henry’s safe delivery with a pouch full of coins. _Thank you, dear nephew,_ she had whispered, _for bringing Young Richmond back to me._

Henry held his hat in his hands and gripped it tight, risking a glance at the Herbert boy.

“I'm sorry for your loss, George.” 

The boy almost threw himself at him, were it not for his lady mother who held his arm. A savage look crossed his eyes.

“Shut up, you scum! _You_ don’t get to talk!”

“George!” Lady Anne gave him a pull. “What manners are these? Apologise to Lord Richmond at this instant!”

Her son wrenched his arm free. “Why do you still call him that, mother? He’s not lord of anywhere or anything! The Duke of Clarence holds his title _and_ his lands. He’s a nobody from nowhere!”

The insult stung deeply, perhaps all the more because it was true. Ever since it had been known the Duke of Clarence held Henry’s earldom of Richmond Lord Herbert had stopped inviting him for his rounds around the castle walls. There had been no more talk of Henry marrying his eldest daughter, and even she had stopped talking much to him. It had hurt him at the time, for Maud was one of the Herbert siblings Henry liked the most, even though she was seven years his senior. She was funny and clever and had the loveliest dimples when she smiled.

It had all been years ago, though. Presently, Maud was silently crying and holding her youngest siblings against her chest. She would not jump in Henry’s defence like her mother did. Now she was promised to a different Henry, a fellow ward of Lord Herbert's and Henry's own friend, Lord Percy: tall, congenial, nineteen years old and just about to be reinstated with his earldom of Northumberland. 

“George, what have I told you about being kind to the unfortunate?”

“I don’t care about him, mother!” Her son sobbed, shoulders shaking with a mixture of rage and grief. He lunged himself at her stomach and hid his face on her dress from where his muffled words could be heard. 

“Why did God allow it, mama? Why did He let Father die when his rebel uncle goes on living?” The boy wept acutely, painfully, wept until he started choking on his own tears, wept until he was out of breath. “It’s all their fault, mama. It’s all their fault.”

 _I know, my sweet. I know._ Lady Anne combed his hair with her fingers, held him in a warm embrace. Soon all the Hebert children had come to surround them in a collective hug, a shared poignant grief, as Henry watched them alone from his corner of the room, feeling useless and guilty. His mother also called him ‘ _sweet’_ and ‘ _dear heart’_ and ‘ _my most beloved son’_ in her letters — all of them unsealed before they reached his hands. 

“My lady,” Henry asked in a tentative voice. “May I be excused?”

Lady Anne's eyes were ever settled on her children. “Yes, Henry. Yes, you may.” 

It was the Lady Ferrars who led him out of the hall, though she soon asked for a servant to show him a place to stay. The liveried man took Henry across a series of apartments before they stopped at a timbered, low ceiling room. It was small, but so was Weobley compared to Raglan. The unfamiliarity of the place only heightened Henry’s sense of discomfort, of displacement, of loss — that room could almost be a place of passage: there was only a narrow bed, a chest, and a candlestick where a candle had already burnt half-way down. Melted wax pooled and dripped in that gloom where only a single light held the world in its place. 

The room’s size did not matter. Henry should be glad he would not share his sleep with the Herbert children that night. _Night_ , Henry repeated the word to himself with a dismal sigh. Just in a couple of hours dawn would bring forth a new day, Henry would be up and dressed for Lauds. _Rejoice. Like the sun, Christ is risen anew._ Yes, he should go and praise the Lord for his narrow escape come the first hour of the day. _‘Seven times a day have I praised you’_ , the psalm preached, yet they said old King Henry spent so much time in prayer he was more of a monk than a monarch. But shouldn’t a king be holy? Shouldn’t a king be the realm’s closest layman to God?

“Should I fetch you water and basin, m’lord?”

Henry turned back to the Devereaux servant in a whirl. The man in blue and red was eyeing him curiously, doubtlessly taking in his disarrayed hair, his face caked with mud and dirt, perhaps even blood. Henry felt soiled to the core. Was it a sin to raise your arm against your fellow men? Perhaps not, as long as your cause was just. The thought gave him a sliver of comfort, if only for the time.

Henry replied with a knotted throat. “Yes, thank you.”

The servant gave him a brief nod before departing. Henry took off his breastplate, his chainmail and boots. He was only twelve years old, yet he grunted like an old man, his bones and joints rusted with tiredness. The night’s darkness encroached all around him, he felt utterly alone. Henry fell to his knees, hid his face on the mattress to stop the tears leaking from his eyes. That was no featherbed.

If he was still a child he could ask them to fetch his nurse. Joan would play with his hair and sing tales of mighty Welsh heroes from the past until he fell asleep: King Arthur and Cadwaladr, the Red Dragon, Llywelyn the Great and Owain Glyndŵr, the last Tywysog Cymru. But the Herberts had already dismissed her from service; Henry was not a child anymore. He was almost a grown man, and had seen his first battle. The soldiers’ desperate cries and hurls of pain were still raging against his eardrums, the smell of blood and excrement was still creeping up his nose.

Henry pressed his hands against his ears, eyes watering the mattress as if it was a bed of flowers.

 _Oh God,_ he wept. _Oh God, oh God, oh God._

HEREFORD,  
October 1470

Lady Herbert had not let him go. During the months King Edward was kept a prisoner Henry’s mother had tried to have his custody back, but Lady Anne had vehemently refused to give him up. Henry was old enough to suspect Lord Herbert had probably paid too much for his wardship for his widow to simply let him go without any sort of generous compensation. His mother's letters had let him well aware of his situation.

> _I am trying to bring you back home, my joy, though Lady Herbert and her brother are intent on the contrary. At present Lord Stafford and I are in London in meeting with a lawyer to learn how well we might force her hand. Our loyal servant Reginald of whom I trust I have spoken several times before has helped us buy a copy of your wardship and we are confident that we shall find a clause to help us with the king’s magistrates this time._
> 
> _I have tried to petition for you with the Duke of Clarence to have your lands and title back, my sweet, as I have let you known well before yet little success lies that way still. Do not lose hope just yet as I your loving mother have not. Have courage and faith. I trust the Lord to see the justice and goodness of our cause before the end._

It seemed his mother had been right: Providence did work in mysterious ways. A year after Edgecote and King Edward had been cast out from his throne, he and his most loyal supporters either slain or scattered out fleeing the country with nothing but their clothes on their backs. Thanks to Lord Warwick the Kingmaker, Good King Harry was back in power and so was Lord Jasper, Henry’s uncle returned from exile. He had sent what Henry assumed to be a strong-worded letter to the Lady Herbert demanding that his nephew be returned to his care promptly and without delay. There wasn't much choice left for the lady that time.

She had bid Henry farewell with tears in her eyes, claiming all she had ever wanted was what was best for him. Henry wasn’t so sure the Lady Anne knew exactly what that was, but it wasn’t her fault in the end. Henry thought she might hug him now that he was leaving her care — he straightened up his spine in expectation, she might even kiss his cheek — yet she never did anything of the sort. It would probably be too improper. All Henry received was a wave and a tearful smile for a goodbye.

Sir Richard was the one to escort him on his journey again, but this time he wouldn’t need to take Henry very far. Lord Jasper and Lady Herbert had agreed on a meeting at the steps of Hereford Cathedral, doubtlessly trying to avoid a situation where his uncle and a retinue of armed men could get inside Weobley Castle, home of the Devereaux, famous Yorkist loyalists and some of his uncle’s worst enemies in Wales to that date. Fate had been reversed and now they feared what would be a long time coming requital.

Henry leapt from his borrowed horse and levelled the unfamiliar place with curious eyes. The town centre was overcrowded with people in celebration: ribbons were hung across the cathedral’s tall doors and a market was set across the green. It seemed the former King Edward wasn’t as popular as he had been once. Henry and Sir Corbert searched for his uncle, shading their eyes with a hand placed against their brows to compensate for the day’s brightness. It wasn’t long before they heard the sound of a man leaping from his horse and a booming call.

“Harry! Harry, is that you?”

Henry turned around to see a broad-chested man with an even broader smile coming his way by fast, almost eager strides. His voice was warm and familiar, and oddly so too was his auburn hair and beard, as if the memory of those was nothing but an item long lost inside a chest but retrieved at last. Henry bowed his head and was about to greet his uncle with a briefly uttered ‘ _My Lord’_ when Lord Jasper yanked him forward and pulled him into a tight hug. The man clapped his back and started laughing against his ears.

“Gracious Lord, Harry! You’re almost as tall as I!” His uncle pulled back to shoot him an appraising look from head to toe. “You get that from your father, no doubt. Poor Margaret is so small! Come, come, let me look at you!”

His uncle pressed both hands against his cheeks, grinning down at him. Henry wanted to frown and smile and laugh at the same time — he didn’t know what to say. _Pleased to meet you, uncle? I’m glad to see you again at last?_ Why did he feel he was still under watch? Why couldn’t he just feel… for the first time… _free?_ Fresh off his cage?

“My lor—”

Sir Richard cleared his throat, evidently hoping to introduce himself. His uncle let go of Henry and turned towards the thin man, but the look he regarded Sir Richard with was stern and cold, in marked contrast to the one he had graced Henry so far. Under that powerful gaze, Sir Richard tripped over his own words, trying yet failing to let his uncle know he had rescued Henry from Edgecote just the year before. If not for him, the knight was almost saying, his nephew would be lost or dead in the battlefield. 

“And you want a reward, is that it?”

It seemed Lord Jasper didn’t lose time with niceties; he was painfully straight to the point. He thanked Sir Richard with a few words, paid him some coins out of his purse and sent him on his way back to Weobley with his regards to Lady Herbert.

Lord Jasper warily watched the knight go, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, yet no sooner Sir Richard had left the green and his uncle had turned back to Henry with a renewed smile, the feather placed on his round-topped hat swaying in the air. He had a way of blinking that gave him almost a childish aura, a far cry from the fierce gruesome rebel they had tried to paint to Henry all those years.

“But don’t you say anything, boy? What’s got into you?” The remark made Henry silently panic for a few seconds — _Think! Say something! —_ before his uncle burst into a fresh peal of laughter. “My God, it’s been so long! You’re so different now, I almost didn’t recognise you. And aren’t you a healthy, good-looking chap! Margaret will be so proud.” 

His uncle picked at his doublet, patted on his cap, and he looked as if he wanted to say every word that there ever was in the whole world and all at once, before his chest deflated with a sigh that sounded equal parts relieved and sad. He took a step back from Henry and closed both his hands into fists.

“I…” He huffed and tried a smile, but the motion was too pained for it to blossom into a full grin. “I have tried to come back to you all these years.”

“Have you?” Henry blurted out before he could stop himself. “Did you… did you try to take me back, I mean?”

Lord Jasper blinked for a moment. “But of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” His face fell with dismal bewilderment, eyes searching Henry’s. “You’re my nephew, Harry. More even so than Ned.” 

Unbeknown to him, his uncle had poked right into the core of an ancient, rotting wound. It had not escaped Henry how his uncle had joined Queen Margaret and Prince Edward in France when he had left him behind, all alone in Pembroke. Henry was no Prince of Wales.

“I’m…” Henry felt so ashamed his ears must have turned all pink. He watched his foot scrape against the grass. “I’m of no particular importance, my lord.”

His uncle gripped his shoulder with a surprisingly gentle strength. “Is that what Herbert tried to make you believe?” 

When Henry looked up he found his uncle’s concerned stare, his face exasperated and frowning.

“You’re the Earl of Richmond, Harry. The Duke of Somerset’s blood runs in your veins, a pure Lancastrian red as there’s ever been.” His uncle cradled his nape, an effort to make him look at his eyes with an intensity so strong it almost hurt. “And you’re nephew to King Henry the Sixth, the one true king, my brother.” 

Softly, his uncle's frown dissolved into a half-smile, and he stepped back to gesture at his mounted retinue. “Which is why I’m taking you to London with me. You’re the son of our dearly loved Edmund.” His eyes gleamed with appraisal, happiness, joy. “And our king wishes to see you.”

Henry's mouth fell open. A shiver dangerously close to elation had just started to creep on his spine when a rich mount was brought to him, the most magnificent black colt he had ever laid eyes on. Henry rubbed the horse’s damp snout while his uncle’s men took the few belongings he had brought with him. Apart from a few items of clothing, his psalter and a set of bow and arrow shafts Lord Stafford his stepfather had gifted him, everything else had belonged to the Herberts.

“The horse is almost fully grown, Harry.” His uncle came around to lay a hand on the animal’s lustrous coat. “And I mean it as a gift. It’s yours to keep.”

Henry risked a grateful smile, half-blinking against the sun’s glaring brightness. 

“Thank you, my lord.”

His uncle scoffed. “Not _‘my lord’_! I’m your uncle, you goose!”

Jasper bumped a fist on his shoulder and Henry made a mocking display of being hurt, rubbing on the spot with exaggerated effort. It was impossible not to join his uncle in his infectious laugh. Henry scrunched up his nose at that man that was half a stranger, feeling younger than he had ever been.

“Alright. Thank you, _uncle_.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jasper climbed his mount, gesturing for Henry to do the same. “Next thing we must do is taking you out of those drabs. It’s going to be a splendid feast. You’ll meet all the nobles and the best men in the kingdom.” His uncle looked back to shoot him a mischievous smile. “How do you think you’ll look in scarlet velvet, nephew? Hideous or handsome?”

Henry spurred his horse on and smiled. He couldn’t deny he was terribly excited.

“Quite charming I’d say, uncle.”

WOKING MANOR,  
November 1470

The window in his mother’s solar had a view of the fishponds and the orchards. It was soothing to look at the fish swimming down below, at the sun setting on the River Wey in shades of blue, orange and purple. The scent of greenery had been a welcoming addition after the busy streets of London, however much Henry had liked spending time at court and visiting the noble residences bordering the Thames. Just the previous day they had gone deer hunting in the large woods that surrounded the manor.

Henry had not only stayed at Woking during that fortnight, though. His mother and stepfather had shown him much of the Surrey countryside surrounding the capital. They had visited Guildford, Maidenhead and Henley, and to his surprise, Henry found himself enjoying travelling more than he had expected. He liked riding his horse without having to rush anywhere, taking the views in, stopping to listen to the birds sing, to visit every minor church, every market. It felt good to be alive, to witness God’s creation, there and then, with his mother and stepfather by his side.

Yes, Lord Stafford could be good company. He was evidently fond of his mother and acquiesced to her every wish. _This is how a marriage should be_ , Henry remembered thinking, though they had given Henry no half-siblings. His stepfather was attentive; he spent considerable time talking to him as well as his mother. He expressed a keen interest in Henry’s studies. _Margaret tells me you’re so very quick and clever!_ Just the simplest of remarks, yet one that made Henry’s chest swell with pride. It was good to know his mother thought highly of him.

“Did you ever get to use that bow I sent you, Harry?"

“Yes, my lord, I did.”

Henry was leaning out the barge, hand touching the river. The water was bitter cold against his fingers, but Henry felt _alive, alive, alive_ with every beat of his heart.

"And you’re quite the bowman, I’m told. A true Crécy hero, are you? Or should I say Agincourt?"

"Oh I wish, sir!" Henry offered him a sheepish grin. “Sir Hugh the master at Raglan says I’ve got a good eye, but that I should practise more if I mean to better my aim. His opinion is that my arm needs strengthening. Yet Lord Herbert—”

His mother dropped the book she was reading on her lap. “My dear, wouldn’t you come over here and sit by my side?”

Henry stood up and walked over to his mother’s seat, putting on his black cap once more. “Lord Herbert used to say that’s only half—”

Lord Stafford was hurriedly shaking his head across from him, regarding him with a desperate sort of expression, yet Henry only understood his meaning once his mother interrupted him.

“Henry, I would appreciate if you did not speak of Lord Herbert.” 

She was looking at her feet, blinking as she gripped her beautifully illuminated book. The veil sewn into her cylinder hat shaded her face against the milky November sun. It was curious, Henry mused, how he was still to turn fourteen and was already taller than his mother. _Doll-sized lady_ , as he heard his uncle call her.

“Not here, not now.” His mother raised back her head and gave him a strained smile. “The day is so very pleasant.”

Before leaving London she had taken him to his grandmother’s residence, Le Ryall. It was a splendid house, richly decorated with tapestries that kept away the winds carried by the Thames. Henry had never been there before, but most importantly Henry had never met Lady Margaret Beauchamp, the dowager Duchess of Somerset. He was surprised to see that his grandmother, her too, was taller than her daughter. Or perhaps it was just a trick of her strictly straight posture, her towering head covered with a two-horned headdress and a silk wimple like the fashions of old.

“Oh, I can see the Tudor in him.”

The elderly lady had said, turning his head from side to side. Henry was standing by the high-arched window so as to better catch the day’s light. He held his cap in his hands, waiting patiently for the lady’s assessment of him to be over.

“The hair is definitely too fair, he must have got it from Richmond, yes. Yet... mostly I see your father, the late Duke of Somerset.” She paused, a twitch running through her wrinkled features, and did the sign of the cross on her forehead with her thumb. “May God rest his soul.”

His mother solemnly dipped her chin and did the sign of the cross as well. “May God rest his soul.”

Henry stood puzzled at that singular display of piety shared by mother and daughter. The dowager Duchess’s charity works and religious endeavours were well talked about at court, and it seemed his mother meant to follow on her footsteps. Lord Stafford rounded the room with a glance and gave Henry an awkward, tight-lipped smile.

“The Beaufort nose, eh.” The duchess ran a fingertip along the bridge of Henry’s nose, then stopped at the tip to boop it. She smiled at him with a scarcely-toothed mouth. “He’s all you, Meg.”

“I know.” His mother was sat with Lord Stafford, holding his hand with an expression of great pride. “He takes after me since very little.”

The pair was finely dressed for their sojourning in London: Lord Stafford looking right lofty in his long green gown belted at the waist, his mother looking every bit dignified with the white gauze veil of her long hennin falling all over one shoulder and over her Murray dress. 

“And he’s very sharp of mind too. He knows how to speak, write and read Latin.”

“Ah!” His grandmother pursed her lips, shooting Henry an amused glance, then leant forward so as to better faux-whisper to him. “Little Meg will never forgive me for that Latin master that was sent away. Not very Christian of her, eh. But you, my young lord,” She raised her voice again, proceeded to fix the velvet tunic falling over Henry’s tights, two-coloured like the Italian fashion. “You with your patrician airs and your Roman profile. You are ready to take over the world, aren’t you?” She pinched his right cheek. “My little Lord of Somerset.”

 _I mean for you to inherit her lands,_ his mother had said to him as they left the duchess’s house _, and some of her properties too. One day Le Ryall may be yours, my heart._ They were still to petition for his earldom of Richmond. Many nobles had already gone to London for that exact purpose in hopes of having their attainders reversed, but mostly Henry had been glad to meet his relatives in his stay, to be looked, listened and talked to — he had never been the centre of attention before. 

At Woking he had met some of the St Johns, his mother’s half-siblings, and John Welles, the youngest of her half-siblings. That family gathering made for a merry party: they spent days gambling over cards and chess. His mother had taught him some of her best tricks and tips. She was skilful, almost too good at strategy, and made many risky bets that turned out to be fairly solid in the end.

But nothing was ever made to last. That fortnight Henry had been allowed to spend with his mother was almost at an end. Soon Henry would go back to London to meet his uncle and go live under his care. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, listening to his mother teach him how she kept her account books. _The secret for managing your estates_ , she was telling him, _is to write down every transaction, every little detail._

“Mother, may I ask you a question?”

His mother looked up from the line she was tracing with her finger, her expression vaguely alarmed. “What is it?”

It was as if she already knew what Henry was going to say. Henry averted his gaze, looked down at the tiled floor of her study. Lord Stafford had told him those white glazed tiles had come from Valencia, a commission that he had meant as a special gift for his mother.

“I have… really enjoyed my time here at Woking, mother.” Henry started his question, yet his tense jaw made the words difficult to articulate. “I wonder if I could… move here and live with you and—and Lord Stafford as well.” 

“My darling, I—” His mother bit her lip, blinked a few times. “If I could I would keep you by my side, yet... I can’t protect you here." She took a deep breath. "I’m but a woman, Henry. Lord Stafford has only a few retainers. We have no way of ensuring your safety.” 

The crucifix she was wearing around her neck clashed against her gold chain. Such was her pained state and expression of defeat, Henry felt terrible for his request. He wanted to protest against her words, wanted to say that he was safe, that he was almost a grown man that needed no protection. King Edward was gone. His mother’s fingers came to rest atop his hand and they wrapped around his knuckles to squeeze them.

“Your uncle Jasper will keep you safe. He’s the most honourable man I have ever met.” She stopped and gave Henry a slim half-smile. “Don’t tell Lord Stafford I said that. Poor Henry is often sick, my husband.” They chuckled together, and his mother pressed a handkerchief against the corner of her eyes before taking his hand again.

“Jasper will teach everything you need to know. He’ll teach you how to be brave like him, strong like him, reliable like him.” Her hand gave him another reassuring squeeze. “He’ll take you to court and make you one of the most important lords in the kingdom. Lord knows he’ll do it—I trust him, _I_ trust him. Ever since he sheltered us in his castle when you were still a babe in my belly.”

Henry blinked, unsure of what to say. His mother brushed back some of his hair strands, kissed the top of his head.

“I would that you trust him as well.”

PEMBROKE CASTLE,  
May 1471

_Matters are past all hope of recovery_ , his uncle had said to him, looking deathly pale after receiving the news of the Lancastrian defeat. He had taken his nephew along his path across South Wales and the Marches in hopes of bringing those Yorkist areas to heel — Henry had followed his uncle’s every step, had watched all of his military and administrative decisions, but his apprenticeship had had a short life. Edward IV was back in England and had been received in London to great acclaim. Warwick was dead and King Henry imprisoned once again.

His uncle had tried to raise support for Queen Margaret in Wales. He was confident they could still win if only they did not give up. Henry followed him in his desperate search for lords and armed men who would rally to their banner and join the Queen’s army and the forces led by Henry’s cousin the new Duke of Somerset, Edmund Beaufort. But alas, they had not been able to reach the queen before she was captured. 

Somerset had waged battle against Edward’s forces too soon, led by what his uncle called ‘ _headiness, which is always blind and improvident’._ Worse, he and his younger brother had been captured, dragged out from their sanctuary in Tewkesbury Abbey and executed. And perhaps even worse still, Prince Edward was dead, the Queen taken to London in chains. At Chepstow his uncle had received the dreadful news, and understanding there was no more hope left, had dismissed his army with great pains. He and Henry were to retreat to Pembroke, but not before his uncle had had his revenge.

Perhaps the Herbets had been right not to underestimate his uncle’s fury. King Edward sent Sir Roger Vaughan after them, not remembering that man had been the one to execute his grandfather Owen, or perhaps exactly with that memory in mind. Whatever his reason, his uncle had certainly not forgotten the fact: he smote off Vaughan’s head, showing him as much mercy as the man had shown towards his grandfather. War was a terrible thing and Henry had to daily tell himself to stare at its ghastly face without flinching.

They had retreated to Pembroke Castle in hopes that the fortress would allow them some respite, but they had been sieged. That was the eighth day the castle’s cannons had been operating in full power and arrows falling from the skies like summer showers come too early. Henry thought, in an incredibly wry note, how ironic it was for him to lose his life in the same place he had been gifted with it. He held no illusions: there were no more Lancastrians left, it was only plain his uncle would be put to death, and he, his nephew, would follow him to the scaffold. 

His mind had been plagued with those dreadful thoughts all day, but an unexpected event took place. A breakout had happened among the enemies’ ranks: now their besiegers were the ones under attack. A messenger was allowed inside the castle, and, dropping his knee before his uncle and taking off his helmet, he told them Lord David ap Thomas had assembled 2,000 men that were just now engaged against his own brother’s army outside the walls. 

“Lord David urges you to flee, my lord. Devereaux and his nephew have gathered an army and are marching to Pembroke as we speak under King Edward's orders. Once they arrive and join forces with Lord Morgan, they’ll be unstoppable.”

 _Devereaux’s nephew?_ Was that William, the oldest Herbert son?

“I’m afraid the situation is dreadfully bleak, my lord. Lord David is risking everything at this moment to send you this message.” The man stopped to lick his lips, then moved his head to the side to shoot Henry a look, even though he kept talking to his uncle. "His brother has been tasked to capture the young Lord Richmond and to do away with his life by any means necessary.”

Henry was taken by a sudden shiver, a lightning strike. He pointed at his own chest, shock hindering his speech. “Me?”

The man nodded. “King Edward says that you are—forgive me for repeating it verbatim now, my lord, but he says that you are _the only imp now left of King Henry’s brood._ ”

Speechless, Henry's immediate reaction was to turn towards his uncle. Jasper was listening with a stern expression: his jaw was set, a tiny muscle on his left side was twitching. _It is as I've feared_ _,_ he sighed, closing his eyes with a trembling hand.

“Good my lord, if you’ll spare me another minute.” 

Henry was still so caught up in that nauseating wave of surprise, it took him some seconds to understand the messenger was addressing him instead of his uncle. All that time he had thought the men outside the castle were after his uncle’s blood, not his own. He had reckoned he would die as a consequence, not as a direct target.

“In our way over here we met a messenger named Reginald Bray. I do believe my lord knows the man?” 

“Yes.” His uncle replied in Henry’s place, unable as he was to conjure any sort of sentence. “Yes, we know Lady Margaret’s steward.”

“This Bray fellow was unable to reach you but he passed forward the message from his mistress, Lady Stafford. The lady also urges you to flee for your life, my lord of Richmond, and she trusts Lord Jasper to undertake this office. Lord Stafford has been gravely injured and his demise is awaited any day now.”

There was just too much for Henry to process at once. _Lord Stafford… dead?_ Oh no, no, no. What would become of his mother if his stepfather died? Who would protect her then?

“The lady says she must bear her son’s departure with great sorrow, but that it seems better for Young Richmond to go abroad than be killed by the bloody sword of a tyrant.” The man swallowed. “And I’m afraid I do not know the rest of the message, my lord.”

For a minute no one risked a word, yet there was no silence. The air was filled with cries of the battle raging outside. Wounded birds spiralled down in the sky, no direction but the one towards the ground, no flight but downfall.

“Tell Lady Stafford I shall take care of my nephew as if he were my own son.” His uncle vowed after what seemed like a great effort to overcome himself. “And that I hope this message will bring some peace to her heart despite these trying times.”

The messenger curtsied and left the room after his uncle bid him rise to his feet, leaving them sufficiently alone for Henry to risk the question that had been plaguing his mind since the news of Lord Stafford's approaching demise.

“Uncle, what will be of my mother now?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Harry.” Jasper regarded him with a desperate look mixed with an unshakable resolution before gesturing to his servants. “But we can’t lose time now confabulating. Matthew, gather my things! Phillip, set the horses at once! You know where I want you two to go.” He grabbed Henry by the arm. “And you will come with me. Now!”

It seemed there was a secret location inside the castle his uncle had never told him about, but Henry would shortly find out. Their feet almost didn't touch the ground in their haste. Jasper took Henry down Pembroke’s narrow stairs, one by one, down secret passages, down the steeple steps carved inside the fortress as if towards the path to Hell itself. His uncle was pulling and steering him forward and Henry wanted his uncle to stop, to stop and listen and _think_.

“Uncle, stop.” His uncle wasn’t listening to him. He had walls for ears. “Uncle, please stop. I’m asking you.”

“We must ride hard, Harry. There are eleven miles east until we reach Tenby, but once we get there we’ll be able to buy a passage to France. I know the mayor of the city, he’s an old friend. White will help us. He’ll arrange the time and the place and provide us with the ship.”

“Uncle!” Henry shifted his weight back on his heels and refused to keep moving. “Uncle, listen to me! We can’t just leave!”

His uncle whirled around. “Why not?” His face was aflame, the colour red taking on his features and almost blending with his hair and beard. "Now is the perfect time. We won't have another chance, so why not?" 

_Because my mother is still in danger_ , Henry thought, yet did not dare to say. Now that his Somerset cousins were gone there was only him and his mother left as the last of the Beauforts. His mother would have no protector once Lord Stafford died.

Henry swallowed. “It is not very noble to flee, uncle.” _Not if it means leaving people behind._ "It's what traitors and cowards do."

“Is that what Herbert told you? Is that what they taught you at Raglan?” His uncle growled. His face grew even redder. “I’ll tell you the truth about Lord Herbert. Yes, I’ll tell you. Listen to me now, Harry. Listen to me!” His uncle pulled on his arm, and such was his expression of rage Henry wanted to recoil from him. “William Herbert is the reason your father is dead! _Dead_ , do you understand me? Dead! He caught him at Carmarthen and kept him under such poor conditions he caught the plague and died. The king ordered him to send Edmund back to us but all he ever sent was his _corpse_.” 

Henry bit his lip, breath erratic and wild. Tears were pricking at his eyes.

“And then they took you from us and sent you to your father’s killer so he would plant the seed of weakness in your heart. Yes, he did it so that it would grow like ivy and poison you from the inside. He tried to erase who you are and turn you into a meek lamb ready for the slaughter.”

Perhaps his uncle had more to say, but he paused when he saw tears on his nephew's face. His uncle brought Henry to his chest and cradled his neck, landing his cheek on the top of his head. 

“I'm sorry, Harry. I'm—" His uncle sighed. "I know they tried, but you’re no lamb, are you? No, you’re a _dragon_. Enormous and fierce and strong. All those years and they didn’t know they had a beast under their roof.”

Henry squeezed his eyes shut, nose overcome with snot. He gripped his uncle’s surcoat and squeezed it within a tight fist.

“And like a beast, you have claws, you have fangs. And you’ll fight back. Yes, they want you to think fleeing is for cowards because that’s how we stay alive, that’s the way we come back to fight them another time. They want us to lay down our weapons and surrender but we won’t make their jobs easy, will we?”

"No." Henry shook his head. "No, we won't."

“Now, Harry. Listen to me. Your cousins are gone. Once York murders my brother you’ll be the only threat left to his rule. He wants to end your bloodline, but I won’t let him, Harry. Do you hear me? I won’t let him.” He was holding Henry against him with the greatest strength, his words were straight and fierce, yet his breath was ragged and raspy.“I won’t fail you like I failed Ned. I won’t fail you like I did my brother. There's only you now." Henry heard him sniffling, felt him sighing against his hair. "Only you." 

Henry didn't know how much time they stood holding onto each other, but it must have been only a few minutes, seconds most likely.

“Don't be scared. France won’t turn us away." His uncle re-started after a pause. "Mother was a French princess and King Louis is our cousin. I can’t promise it will be easy but I can promise I’ll be there with you. I need you to trust me on this, Harry." Jasper pulled back to lay a hand on his shoulder. "I need you to trust _me_ most of all _._ ”

Henry wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve. He was feeling terribly light-headed yet he found himself nodding after his uncle all the same. France was a terrible unpredictable void: dark and unknown and terrifying. It felt a bit like dying, like rubbing his skin hot and raw until it hurt and bruised. That was that day he shed skin for scales.

“We will be back.” His uncle held his gaze, a motion that seemed as infinite as the stormy sea of his eyes. “But first we'll survive.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Some Historical Notes:**
> 
> (*) We know that Henry VII had a relatively peaceful childhood at Raglan. Henry was evidently fond of Lady Anne Devereaux, for when he won his crown in 1485 he arranged for the lady to be escorted to London, welcomed her in his court, then sent her back home by means of royal escort again. Anne Devereaux ensured that he was well-educated, and she must have had in mind the fact that her husband meant for their daughter Maud, who was 12 years old at the time, to marry the 5-year-old Henry of Richmond. Lord Herbert paid a sum of £1,000 (£643,000 in today's currency) for the wardship of Henry Tudor.
> 
> At Raglan Henry grew up with all of Herbert's thirteen children (ten legitimate and three illegitimate). In 1485 William Herbert refused to march against Henry and his brother Walter actually took some Herbert retainers and joined Henry's army. Henry's army also marched unopposed across the lands of George Grey of Powis, Anne Herbert's husband. Henry Percy Earl of Northumberland also famously refused to join Richard III's forces at Bosworth, a decision which was crucial to Henry's victory.
> 
> Those childhood connections in Wales turned out for the better later in Henry's life, but although by all accounts he was well-treated in Raglan, Henry himself later declared that _'since the age of five he had been guarded like a fugitive or kept in prison'_. His situation must not have been too comfortable since both Lord William Herbert and Walter Devereaux (Lady Anne's father) were responsible for the deaths of Henry's father and grandfather.
> 
> (*) _"His fingers touched the square wooden piece where the blue and red cross of St John of Matha, protector of Christian captives, was painted"_ \- In 1465 Margaret Beaufort arranged for Lord Stafford, herself and her son to be admitted to the confraternity of the Order of the Holy Trinity at Knaresborough. This order was co-founded by St John of Matha and Felix of Valois circa 1198 to help captive Christians under slavery in the times of the crusades. Their friars wore white robes with red and blue crosses on their chests.
> 
> (*) _"[...] a set of bow and arrow shafts Lord Stafford his stepfather had gifted him"_ \- As per Henry Stafford's accounts, while Henry was at Weobley his stepfather bought those items _'for his disports'_. Cute!
> 
> (*) _"I mean for you to inherit her lands"_ \- By 1482 Margaret had successfully convinced Edward IV to allow Henry to have a share of the dowager Duchess of Somerset's lands (a sum equivalent to £276,500 in today's currency) if he were to return _'to be in grace and favour of the king's highness'_. We don't know whether Henry VII ever met his grandmother during his stay in London, but I personally think that it is highly possible. Margaret Beaufort had a particularly close relationship with her mother and they must have talked about Henry multiple times. Margaret Beauchamp was, after all, Margaret's sole parent since her father died when she was just some days shy of her first birthday.
> 
> (*) Speaking of which, it's highly suspected that John Beaufort, 1st Duke of Somerset, committed suicide after what was a terrible campaign in France that had left him in disgrace with the king (hence the hastily spoken _"May God rest his soul"_ ). John was captured when he was only 15 years old and spent no less than **seventeen** years in captivity in France, the longest time an English lord was ever held under arrest during the Hundred Years war. When negotiations finally went ahead and he was ransomed _'for an immense amount of money'_ (£15,000,000 in today's currency), he was incredibly impoverished. However, he still held extensive lands and properties that made Margaret Beaufort a much-sought-after heiress. The title of Duke of Somerset was passed on to his youngest brother Edmund, the only survivor of the Somerset brothers. As with the Earl of Suffolk, Henry VI came to rely heavily on Somerset's counsel to the dismay of the Duke of York and his supporters. Thanks to Shakespeare we all know how the story ends.
> 
> (*) _"Matters are past all hope of recovery"_ \- According to Vergil that's what Jasper said when told of the Lancastrian defeat at Chepstow Castle. He lamented Somerset's _"headiness, which is always blind and improvident"_ but he didn't know at that point that Edward's army had caught up with that of the queen. His army marched incredibly fast, trying as they were to prevent the Lancastrian army from joining Jasper's reinforcements. There were also heavy rains that affected the river and prevented the queen's army from crossing the Welsh border.
> 
> __________________
> 
> I would love to know your thoughts 🌹 Thanks for reading and happy new year x


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